Sixty Nine Moons: More Dyson Drabbles
by Staxia
Summary: Another cycle of 100-word drabbles about my favorite werewolf - glimpses into his past, both distant and near, and his possible future. About half smut, half not-smut. Rated M, so mature audiences only, please. As always, I'd be deeply grateful for feedback.
1. Songs of Pain

_With season three nearly upon us, I thought I'd do another series of 100-word drabbles about my favorite werewolf. My first cycle of drabbles, Thirteen Moons, may interest you. _

Pain.

He ran as only a wolf could run, silent between moon-limned trunks. Sharp stones slicing his raw feet, his muscles searing, his chest burning, lungs aflame.

_Glorious_ pain.

For thirteen moons, he'd felt nothing, body and soul. The renewed anguish in his bone and blood and heart sang a welcome song. One of flesh, longing, desire.

And jealousy.

In his memory, Lauren touched Bo, again and again. The spike through his heart was like... like her nails on his back when he entered her. It hurt, but so sweetly.

He howled at the stars, singing ecstatic songs of agony.


	2. Face Down

He skimmed his hands down the curve of her waist before grasping her hips and spinning her around to face his bed.

"Dyson!" Her surprised gasp ended in a low moan as he slipped his hand up under her loose hair and pushed until she was face down on the fur throw. Her skin was stark against the dark brown pelt.

Slowly, he dragged one fingertip down the long line of her spine. The caress made her arch her back, lifting her hips towards his in a feral, urgent motion.

He nudged her knees apart as he unzipped his jeans.


	3. At the Precinct, 3 am

She kicked one long leg over his lap, straddling his hips in a smooth motion.

The sudden weight made his jeans uncomfortably tight.

"Bo, I need to do paperwork," his protest faded off as she drew the tip of her tongue in a slow circle in the hollow of his throat. He moaned as pleasure shivered down his spine, pooling in his groin.

He clutched her silk blouse mindlessly, drawing her closer.

"Well," her breath was hot on his feverish skin, "I've got needs, too."

After a trembling moment, he surrendered with a growl.

The silk shredded in his hands.


	4. Victory Party at the Dal

She danced slowly, lazily feeding off the lust-dazed horde who writhed around her. They stroked her arms, her hair, her skin.

Overcome, his wolf _snarled_.

He slipped through the dancers like a predator through the herd until he was pressed against her.

"Dyson?"

He yanked her hard to him, one thigh between hers, their hips locked in time to the throbbing beat. The sudden embrace made her gasp.

"What-"

He cut her off her with a devouring kiss.

"You."

Her mouth opened under his, hot and yielding.

"Are."

His voice lowered to a ripsaw snarl of animal possession.

"_Mine."_


	5. Outside Moscow, Winter of 1812

The Kamchatka roared at Dyson, the sound like a blow to his body.

"A god-bear," he spat in disgust, dodging a boulder-sized paw as he lifted his rifle. "Who brings an underfae to a shooting war? It's just a dumb beast."

The shot cracked the air, spraying blood, fur, and flesh in a wide splatter. There was a surprised grunt from the bear and it staggered backwards.

He switched his grip and swung his bayonet, gutting the thing. It crumpled in a welter of stink and entrails.

"Well," he wiped his blade, "at least I have a new fur rug."


	6. Patience

Wolves are hunters. They wear patience like a second skin.

He settled back. Down the bar, Bo smiled and poured whiskey into three shot glasses, handing one to Kenzi and the other to Lauren. Then she made a joke and smiled, joy and contentment in her every line. It stirred something bittersweet in his chest.

Kenzi downed the shot and coughed. It smelled cheap, even across the room. Lauren sipped, made a face.

The delicate skin near her eyes feathered into lines. She was human. Fragile. Aging.

Trick was right. Mortal love was fleeting.

Wolves are patient. He could wait.


	7. China, August 12, 1900 (Boxer Rebellion)

Dyson hefted his sword and squinted at the sky. The brutal July sunlight was scattered but not dimmed by billows of red dust and blue gunsmoke. He couldn't see.

Simian shrieks echoed out of the searing haze.

"They are coming!" Marcella screeched.

"_Where _are they coming _from?" _The Italian accent he'd found so charming started to grate after weeks of enforced proximity. But she made an excellent spotter amidst the chaos.

"There!"

He whirled. The flying monkey screamed hate and died.

"Come to Bejing, he said! The girls are pretty, he said!" he snarled, spat. "I'm going to murder Trick."


	8. Purr

Kneeling at his feet, Bo grinned back up at him.

He fought the urge to grab fistfuls of her hair, to haul her up roughly, tear her clothes, bury his nose in the fragrant hollow of her throat. Instead, he took a deep breath and laced his fingers together behind his neck, his whole body trembling.

She slipped one finger between the waistband of his jeans and his hot skin, and he felt a low growl rumble in his throat. When she popped the button on his jeans, his hips rocked forward in a hungry roll.

His zipper purred down.


	9. Hungary 1456 (The Crusades, good times)

The nuns chattered like a flock of birds.

"Sisters, with all due respect, be _quiet!" _he snarled, eyes flashing yellow.

Silence.

"The janissaries are downstream. I've got a boat waiting to take you to Capistrano-"

"_Brother_ Capistrano," corrected the hatched-faced abbess.

Dyson rolled his eyes.

"-to _Brother _Capistrano. Keep your heads down and do not make _any_ noise. Sound carries on water."

"Not even grateful prayers?" a blue-eyed novitiate smiled at him.

"Not even prayers."

"But how will we express our appreciation?" another slim novitiate slipped a arm around her Sister's waist and they smiled at him together.


End file.
